Lackadaisy Vignettes
by Mind of the Childishly Naive
Summary: An instance in which the title is the most descriptive thing I can think of.  These are dominantly pre-series, but the occasional one will stray into the canon timeline.
1. esther

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Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_Esther_

-x-

At first, he only has Esther.

Esther, who is brand new to his meager two years. Esther, who cries a lot and pinches him when he holds her up in his lap while _Mameh_ is busy because the floor is exceptionally dirty today and no one has gotten around to sweeping. Esther, who bites his ears and kicks him, and throws the few toys they share with the other tenement children who share their front room.

Esther, who wakes _him_ up in the middle of the night. Esther, who chases him. Esther, who back-talks. Esther, who gets him into all kinds of trouble. Esther, who won't stop calling him names. Esther, who rips the pages out of his school books. Esther, who doesn't want him to _go _to school, who cries the first time he's gone for that first half-a-day and who misses him, and hugs him tightly, and never wants to let him go again _ever_ when _Tateh_ brings him home at lunch.

Esther, who quickly gets over this affection. Esther, who takes his things even before he is too big for them and won't give them back no matter how politely he asks. Esther, who throws his good shoes down the air shaft even though he pointedly tells her that they were _new_ and how crunched they are for money. Esther, who runs away from home and makes him go after her before their parents notice that she's missing and scold him for not watching her.

Esther, who doesn't like the sandwiches he makes. Esther, who is selfish. Esther, who bosses him as if_ she's_ the older sibling. Esther, who steps on his toes. Esther, who doesn't listen. Esther, who blatantly defies all rational thought. Esther, who sticks up for him and clocks one of his classmates in the school yard after they say something rude about her brother.

Esther, who is occasionally the timid, younger sister that actually needs him.

Esther, who still surprises him sometimes.

And then, suddenly, when he has finally adjusted to everything that is Esther - there's Rose.

-x-

(A/n) Fortieth story, and I'm not even entirely sure what this is. xD But. I've been writing a lot of random things that are turning out very small, so this is my place to stick them so they're not all scattered about and alone. A lot of these will actually, probably, maybe, be more Mordecai-centric than others, soooo, enjoy that!

-Motcn


	2. brusque

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Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_brusque_

-x-

It is one of the first memories that he has of his father, and in all honesty it isn't even a very good one.

He is standing on Aunt Nina's porch - because for some reason he _does_ think of it, always, as more Aunt Nina's porch than Uncle Caroll's porch - in the mid-morning sun. It's chilly outside, because the leaves are starting to get crispy and his birthday is inching closer and closer, but he doesn't have a coat on and he shivers.

He was rushed into the car too quickly to bother with that sort of thing, some of his clothes and favorite books thrown into a small rucksack that his father carries, and drops heavily beside the front door. His father doesn't bother knocking, one large hand reaching out, twisting the knob and pushing the front door inward; the other hand comes down between his ears, ruffles his hair for a brief moment, and gives him a swift nudge toward the threshold even though he remains rooted to his spot on the porch.

"Go on in, Roark," is all he says, and then bounds away, down the porch steps, across the neatly trimmed yard.

The car door slams shut, and the hurried clap of Aunt Nina's shoes on the hardwood intrudes on the sound of the motor starting. Roark presses his fingers together, watching the car, his ears flicking back as Aunt Nina jerks the door open further, throws him one look, and then comes out onto the porch in the same motion she uses to snatch him up off his feet.

"Ransom!"

His ears quiver at the tone, the loudness of it. She sets him _inside _the house, disappears from his sight with a flick of her tail and whirl of her skirt, and Roark stands to the side of the door, looking out at the porch railing and vines twisting up and around it, tapping the tips of his fingers together and biting his lip, listening. He hears his father's name again, and then Aunt Nina doesn't even bother wasting her breath.

The grumbling car sounds fade away, slowly, and everything is quiet for a while before he hears Aunt Nina's shoes on the first porch step. It creaks. And groans. And so does the second step, and the third, and then Aunt Nina is leaning down to retrieve his discarded bag, coming inside and quietly pushing the door closed behind herself.

There's silence. Aunt Nina shifts his bag to her other hand, reaches down and soothes his hair back a few times, and Roark blinks bright blue eyes at her, biting his lip and smiling broadly, still tapping his fingers.

She pat's his back, pushes him forward.

"Go play with Calvin, Roark," she says, following behind him until he ducks into the parlor and she continues on her way towards the kitchen, "And be _nice_."

He's always nice, though, and runs immediately to the thick, embroidered blanket that's spread out on the floor, where his tiny, rolly, orange cousin is laying, chewing on one of his soft-wooden alphabet blocks. Roark stretches out beside him, grinning, and takes the block from him.

"Hiya, Freckle," he says, and starts spelling out the few words he remembers.

-x-

(A/n) Surprisingly, I have no real comment to make here, except that the thought of Rocky's relationship with his father troubles me for unbeknownst reasons. Feedback is appreciated, as always! :D

-Motcn


	3. moonshiner

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Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_moonshiner_

-x-

He is sitting on a crate of questionable contents, rocking and jostling to the clatter of a train heading towards a town that he can't recall the name of, and sitting across from a scraggly fellow whose name has also escaped his attention. Rocky has been calling him Murray, and even though he knows this is not right, "Murray" has yet to correct him and Rocky suspects it's because the older cat is too many sheets to the wind to even remember who _he's_ talking to.

"Boy," Murray says, leaning over. The beginning of yet another tangent filled with life lessons and a plethora of reasons a strapping young man such as himself should not be stowed away among the cargo of a train with only a smelly habitual drinker for company.

"Rocky," he interjects, to stave off said tangent.

It isn't quite as entertaining being on the receiving end. The man chuckles.

"_Stupid _name," he wheezes, distracted, and Rocky bites his smile, eyebrows creasing.

He fidgets, because he can't remain still, pulling at loose threads that are still trying their best to hold his rucksack full of belongings together despite his enthusiastic treatment. It's also quite cold in the baggage car, being late February and somewhere further North than he's accustomed to, and he figures fidgeting and bouncing his legs and moving his hands is an effective enough way of keeping warm.

He can see his breath puff out in the air in front of his face, even in the sparse lighting. No windows in the car, and the door is firmly secured shut until their arrival; only thin lines of moon light manage to flicker their way in through cracks that also welcome in more cold.

When Murray has gotten over his drunken giggles, and can't quite remember what was so funny in the first place, he sits up, his thick hands resting on his knees, and sighs.

He decides to share.

Reaching back, into the rough burlap sack beside the crate he's resting on and swaying only slightly, he addresses Rocky, "Ever had moonshine, son?"

Rocky's ears turn forward.

"Beg pardon?" he asks, hugging his bag against his chest and leaning in toward his bedraggled comrade.

In one motion, Murray produces two thick, clear Mason jars, full to the torsion brim with an equally clear liquid that sloshes and grabs the white light that flashes in, throwing it back across Rocky's face for the shortest of seconds.

"_Moonshine_," Murray says, a grin spreading over his dappled mug.

He passes one to Rocky, who can easily see why it might be called that as he takes the jar with both hands, blue eyes wide and intent on the dancing, glinting liquid. He holds it out away from his body, the metallic brush of the other jar's lid twisting off makes his ears shiver. He glances over, watches Murray as he takes a few practiced gulps, grimaces, holds it in, and shudders, releasing a heavy sigh.

Rocky tries to pass the jar back, "No, I, uh -"

"Ah, go on, it'll warm ya up," Murray says, gestures widely, "B'sides, ya only live once."

He seems to keep this notion close to heart, and takes another long draw from his own, near-empty jar. The train clatters loudly and Rocky bounces, the moonshine languidly swings in the jar and another shaft of light flickers in through the cold spaces, bites the blue in his eyes again. Chewing on his lip, Rocky unscrews the lid; that first rough twist that catches, the scrape against glass, and then the smell hits him as he moves it under his nose, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

It smells sharp, bitter, almost like copper - the way his hands smell after counting out pennies with Freckle - and _hot._ It smells hot _and_ dry, like liquid fire, but instead of recoiling from it Rocky leans in, taking a deeper, slower breath.

He only half-listens when Murray pipes up around the rim of his jar.

"Don't take such a big swig, now, son," he says, "It burns aaaaall the way down."

"It what?" Rocky inquires, lifting the clear jar to his lips without even waiting for the response.

He tilts the jar forward, that distilled tang and dry taste is on his tongue - and it _does_ burn. Not when it's in his mouth, but when he swallows, once, hard. It seers his throat, spreads out between his ribs, seeping slowly into his stomach and settling down to the soles of his feet. It makes his toes curl in his worn-out shoes, his face puckers, his eyes squeeze shut, and every limbs curls in towards that unbidden warmth, even if it is only a reflexive attempt to withstand the taste, the burning on his insides.

Rocky makes himself swallow again, whatever's left in his mouth, and he must be still warm and a little numbed, because the effect of that second, forced gulp is significantly less unpleasant than the first. He feels that strange warmth in his feet, and slowly uncurls. Even the air feels hotter, when he sucks it in to fill his lungs and maybe rinse some of that penny-taste away, and it's definitely warmer when he exhales.

Blue eyes dart to the jar still clamped in his hand. He's only taken one swing and he almost - _almost_ - considers taking another.

But this is something Ransom would do.

Tentatively holding out the jar, with one hand, now, because the other is distractedly rubbing at his throat and trying to ease away the hotness, Rocky tries to return it again. Murray is too busy laughing to notice, keeled back against the other crates, arms around his middle as he shakes with abandon and can't remember why, where he passes out. And where he ultimately does not wake up again due to guzzling nine Mason jars of improperly distilled hooch.

Because Murray is a fool who doesn't carry matches.

And Rocky is as lucky as ever, leaning across the meager space, while Murray still wheezes and laughs, and setting the Mason jar beside it's empty comrade.

-x-

(A/n) "Rocky's had moonshine before. That didn't end well." ...At least not for poor Murray, I guess. Personally, I don't quite remember the _smell_ of moonshine, but the sensation definitely leaves a lingering impression. AND OH LOOK more "Rocky and his melancholic Daddy angst", though it's a bit more subtle than _"brusque"_. Also, this wasn't meant to imply that Ransom is a drinker, or that he personally has influenced Rocky's apparent disdain for alcohol and those who indulge in it, but seeing as he's such an enigma, I can allude to whatever underlined feelings of inadequacy that I feel like alluding to (for now). 8I

This one was a little lengthy for "vignettes", but whatever! Please review!

-Motcn


	4. rocky

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Lackadaisy Vignettes_  
rocky_

-x-

Caroll McMurray sits stooped over in a kitchen chair, untying his work boots and listening to his wife and her sister talk as they make sandwiches for dinner. The boys are outside in the back yard - Roark is shouting animatedly to his tiny, silent cousin about something he's found in the hedges. Laughing, Sophie Rickaby goes to stand in the window, "What's he got in his hands?" Caroll looks up, as well, spots Roark emerging, triumphant from Nina's rhododendrons, something squirming in his hands. Calvin's eyes are wide and his mouth is open, his hands covering his face. He runs to get a bucket sitting in the nearby shade and comes sloshing back to meet his cousin.

The bucket is almost as big as he is.

Calvin sets it heavily on the ground, water swings out of the top, and he shouts, diving after something that's landed in the grass. Both of the boys are shouting, then, Roark stuffing something into the pocket of his trousers and helping Freckle wrangle whatever's escaped the bucket. Some odd minutes later, when the commotion has drawn Nina's attention, too, Roark slaps a piece of tin over the top of the bucket, panting and grass-stained, and Calvin is trying to peel the edge of the tin up to see their captives.

He looks up, saying something to his cousin, who shakes his head, pointing. Roark picks up the bucket and carries it toward the house, Calvin stepping on his heels. The patio door creaks open and Roark sticks his head into the washing room, grinning when he spots his mother.

"Mom, can we come in?" he asks, still holding the bucket.

"Can you?" asks Sophie.

"_May we come in?"_

"Take y'shoes off, please," his mother says, smiling.

Roark disappears for a moment, trying to toe off his shoes without setting down the bucket and Calvin sits on the patio and unties his laces. He fumbles, trying to hurry, because Roark is already a shoe ahead of him and will no doubt get in the house first, "Rocky, _I_ wanna show Dad."

"Alright, alright," Roark says distractedly, kicking off his last shoe and running in through the washing room, straight to his mother, "Mom, look! Look at this."

He lifts the piece of tin and Sophie, leaning down to see, laughs again. She sticks a finger into the bucket.

"Whose fish is this, Roark?"

"Um, Freckle's," he says, unembarrassed, "The frogs - I caught those! Look at this one."

He points, juggling the tin and the bucket, and nearly dropping both when Calvin comes in behind him and pulls on his sleeve, "Rocky, I wanna show my -"

"Alright, hold your horses," Roark says, throwing Aunt Nina, who is still preparing sandwiches, a cautious glance because he's sure she won't approve of the bucket being dropped everywhere.

He tries to pass the piece of tin to his tiny cousin first and instead gets the bucket pulled out of his hands as Calvin yanks at it, slopping water down his front. A frog escapes; Sophie gives a theatric shriek as her son gallantly snatches it back off her apron and she pulls him up into a strong hug that makes him protest. Calvin trips across the kitchen to where Caroll is sitting, amused, his work boots half untied.

"Look!" Calvin says, propping the bucket against his father's knee and holding it steady with both hands, "Look, Rocky helped me catch it, look! Rocky says - Rocky says -"

But he is too excited to get out what it is that his cousin says, and he indicates the fish. Caroll leans over the bucket, smiling broadly.

He doesn't look at the fish, but at his son.

"What's that you're callin' 'im?"

Calvin stares.

"Your cousin," Caroll chuckles, "What're you callin' 'im?"

Calvin doesn't answer. Amber eyes wide, he suddenly finds the fish fascinating and starts playing in the water. Roark comes to return the frog as Caroll takes the bucket and sets it in the floor between his feet. He pokes Roark in the chest, still looking at his son, who is chewing on his fingers, now.

"Calvin, it's alright, son, who's this?" he asks again, "Roark?"

Calvin nods.

"Rocky," he says quietly, looking across at his cousin, who bites his lip and grins.

"_Rocky?"_ Caroll asks, pronouncing it much more clearly than his three-year-old. Calvin nods again. His father laughs good-naturedly, "I just noticed. Can y'not say _Roark_, son?"

"I can!" says Calvin, brow knotted. He doesn't realize it sounds different when he says it and Rocky's grin broadens.

"I don't mind, Uncle Caroll."

-x-

(A/n) Tiny idea of why Rocky is called Rocky. I like that when you call them out on pronunciations, babies get all self-conscious and won't say anything because they think they've said something wrong. It's just... it's adorable. GodIwantbabiessobadit'spathetic. And I want you all to know that I am incapable of consistently writing their given names; "Calvin" and "Roark" always trip out from under my fingers as "Calbin" and "Raork". Damn fingers.

-Motcn


	5. visit

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Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_visit_

-x-

Their destination is a tall, brick building that does nothing to stand out from the other unassuming buildings that flank it, except that the bronze lettering above the archway dully states, "District Hospital." There are prominent cracks easing their way through several of the letters, and the "C" is crooked - but he tries his best to ignore these as he climbs the stairs ahead of his mother and sisters, gripping the handle and leaning all his weight back to pull open the heavy door.

Inside, it stinks of illness, disinfectant, and, strangely, the elderly, and Mordecai is glad for once that Rose is his charge, because if she decides to fuss or gets bored he has an excuse to leave. Rose holds his hand too tightly as they walk the length of the grungy hallway, taking in every closed door or nurse they pass and the flickering lights with awe and a small degree of fear, because she hasn't been here before and is still hovering in that stage of wanting to hide behind someone's pantleg.

Esther, being unusually reassuring, keeps smiling up at their mother, who returns the gesture automatically and pats her daughter's hand. Mordecai manages to mask his distaste for the poor excuse for a medical facility with an expression of mild boredom, though his tone betrays some of his mood when he tells Rose to stop squeezing his fingers so tightly, it's starting to hurt. She looks up at him, blinks those bright green eyes, and slowly loosens her grip.

She starts to chew her fingers instead, until Mordecai tells her to stop that, too, because it's a disgusting habit. She stops, briefly, then nervously and discreetly begins plucking at her bottom lip. Mordecai notices this, of course; only raises his eyes over the rim of his spectacles, takes a deep breath, and, deciding that it isn't quite as bad and offense as nail-biting is, tells himself that he cannot win every battle.

They pass several more doors, several different voices, or bouts of coughing, faces, and bustling nurses, cracked tiles and smudged walls, and Mordecai doesn't grimace at any of it until they are standing in front of the door.

_The_ door.

He stops just before it, to the side and out of sight of anyone who would be looking expectantly out into the hall, and Rose jumps at the suddenness of it, her fingers flying guiltily away from her mouth. She looks up at him, then at her mother and Esther, who both immediately, smiling, enter the room, Tzipporah raining Yiddish affections down on her husband from the very moment she catches sight of him sitting up in bed beside the window.

Esther sways a little just inside the doorway, forward on her toes, backwards onto her heels, giving her mother that moment to lean down and hug her father, who chuckles and returns the Yiddish murmurs with an added, endearing, _"Neshomeleh."_. This moment doesn't come often enough anymore and Esther realizes that, brash as she is. Turning her head, though, she graces Mordecai with her best, most demanding scowl.

_Get in here._

She says it with her eyes.

_Now._

He isn't exactly compliant, moving Rose to the front and pushing her in ahead of himself. She fights to keep ahold of his hand, but he deftly pries his fingers loose. With a small, exasperated breath, Esther takes Rose's hand, flashing her a look that is meant to be reassuring, but one Mordecai thinks is a bit contrived - not that he can honestly tell the difference. But there is something distinct between _not _doing something and doing _the opposite _of something, and though thinking about this gives Mordecai a headache, finds the thought of executing the latter distasteful and over all more nerve-wracking.

He is not very feeling-oriented. He knows that you at least need a _small_ understanding of what you're trying to _not_ do before you can attempt to properly convey it's opposite and he also knows fully well that he has very little grasp on such intricate subjects, whereas the girls seem to come by it naturally.

"_Tateh,_" Esther says, smiling, dragging a timid Rose with her as she approaches the bed, leaning in, "How're you feeling today? Better?"

Their father smiles.

Mordecai edges quietly into the room.

-x-

(A/n) Random bit with Mordecai and his sisters, because I love them. I've had this horded up on my computer for ages and finally felt like shaarrriiiing.

-Motcn


	6. viktor

-x-

Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_viktor_

-x-

She has never seen someone taking up so much space before in her whole nine years of existing.

He tromps past without so much as glancing at her, and she turns right around on her stool, grabbing at her father's folded-up sleeve and leaning around his back to watch the broad chunk of man that stops on the other side of her Godfather. He speaks briefly, hitting every consonant so hard she can hardly distinguish the vowels at first. She slides off her stool as Atlas replies, ducks back behind her father when he reaches for her ("Where you going, pipsqueak?"), and circles the gargantuan man leaning a heavy hand on the bar. He's listening to Atlas. Mitzi notices her, but doesn't say anything to draw his attention; only smiles a mysterious smile and goes on making sandwiches for the other boys crowded into the booths.

That's perfect. Ivy doesn't want his attention, though she inadvertently draws it, reaching up and looping both scrawny arms around the one he's leaning his weight on.

She lifts her feet off the ground, the pleated skirt of her sundress catching around her ankles.

And she giggles.

The sound is what makes him notice her. He pushes off the bar, lifts his arm, and Ivy, and Ivy tightens her grip, legs and skirt swinging. Her sandals slip off.

"Wow," she says, toeing the side of his leg for a better purchase.

She glances up at his face, around the barrel of an arm, and that's when she notices it.

"Oh _wow_," she says, more emphatically, her toes finding the waistband of his trousers. Knees bent, she hauls herself up against his arm to better see his face- or more pointedly, the patch covering one of those bright, grass-green eyes. The grimace on his face makes it painfully clear he is not welcome to the idea of being a tiny girl's jungle gym, and he does not appreciate the invasion of his personal space. She disregards this look completely, opens her mouth to speak, "What happened to your - ?"

"This vone is yours, I think," the man says gruffly, turning, and swings his arm out toward Reuben.

Ivy squeals, her feet slide off his hip and swing underneath her, nowhere near the floor. He doesn't realize how much fun that is when he does it, he is only trying to return the prying limbs and toes to someone more comfortable with them. But that does it - he's won her over. Grabbing her by the waist, Reuben returns her to the stool. He chuckles.

"Unfortunately. Sorry about that."

The man grunts in reply and returns to Atlas, who also seems highly amused by the ordeal. Ivy kicks her feet, staring across her father's and Godfather's backs. She once again abandons her seat on the pretense of getting her sandals, and stands at the large man's hip after retrieving them, holding her sandals against her lower back and twisting to and fro so that her dress swishes against her legs. He ignores her. When she idly pulls on his belt loop, he waves her off with a large hand, without looking, and shortly after she tugs on the same belt loop, he finishes his conversation with Atlas and starts to leave the cafe.

Ivy trips after him across the tiled floor.

Because he's finished talking, she pipes up, "Hey, what happened to your - ?"

"Ivy, stop pestering him," Reuben says, exasperated.

She turns to her father.

"But - "

The door jangles open.

She turns back to the man.

"I -!"

He isn't listening.

The door swings closed.

He's gone.

Ivy's shoulder's sink as she watches him walk alongside the window and disappear around the corner, and she turns to her father again, her face puckered in a frown of utter disappointment. Her sandals dangle loosely at her side. That's when Mitzi speaks up, setting out plates on a nearby table and smiling at the boys. She rolls an elegant shoulder toward the girl.

"Oh, go on, honey, he's just fiddling around in the garage," she says, and waves a hand, "You don't want to waste a gorgeous afternoon sitting in here listening to the grown-up talk."

Ivy beams at her, clutching her sandals.

"Well, if you insist!" she says, and throws open the door, while her father calls out uselessly after her.

"Now, Ivy, you mind him and don't be bothering anything!"

"I won't!" Ivy says as the door swings closed.

"And don't you ask him about his eye, it's not your business!"

But she is already out of ear-shot, and that is the very first thing she asks him after she skips noisily into the garage, swinging her sandals. Of course, she never gets a straight answer out of him. The only thing she _does _get out of him (aside from the initial glare as she prances up to stand at his hip) is an irritated, "This is not place for little girls to be playing bare footed." He points. "You vill step on piece of metal and cut your feet to pieces, and I vill not be rushing you to doctor. You vill deserve to lose whole leg that vay."

"What way?" Ivy asks, utterly stunned.

Clearly he's exaggerated to dissuade her from staying. He just doesn't want to be bothered with her. Still. She casts a cautionary glance around the concrete floor, meets that one, grass-green eye when she turns her disbelieving gaze upward.

"By not listening," he says roughly, and turns away.

Well.

She steps into her sandals.

He _would_ know about losing things, she thinks.

-x-

(A/n) Some Viktor and Ivy, because I love them. CB

-Motcn


	7. hedge

(A/n) NOTE this is a little sequel-type-thing thing to Prevaricate. It's not terribly important that you read Prevaricate to enjoy this (if you enjoy it at all), but it sort of fills in those infinitesimal blanks. I've had this sitting around in my "random shit I'm not gonna do anything with" folder for ages and finally decided that since the writing is sparse in this fandom for me at the moment, I may as well share it. C:

-x-

Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_hedge_

-x-

Rocky gives him painkillers the following Monday, after he picks him up in the morning, treading softly around Aunt Nina when he comes to the door, and after they're safely standing in the forlornly empty Little Daisy Cafe.

"One, uh... every hour, I guess. Or whenever it hurts. And if your mother asks, the doctor prescribed them," he says firmly, immediately cracking a grin. His eye is still black. "Good call on that, by the way."

Trepidation claims Freckle's expression and he stares hard at the suspiciously blank label on the bottle in his hand. He wonders, but doesn't ask, where Rocky procured them from and, because he trusts his cousin and his side hurts so bad he hardly slept last night, Freckle reluctantly downs one with a glass of chocolate milk before stuffing the bottle into his pants pocket.

Setting aside the newest edition of _Vogue_, Ivy leans on her elbows across the counter and covers the distance between Freckle and herself quite dexterously considering her size, managing all at once to appear inviting and intimidating. She laces her fingers, watching with a small smile as Freckle does his best to be inconspicuous behind his glass of milk.

"So how did it go the other night?" she asks.

Rocky stares at her for a second, almost as if she's grown another head, then looks away.

"I should go talk to Miss M. about that, actually," he says, suddenly decided, and slides off the bar stool, "But there were no, uh... no life-threatening lacerations to speak of."

The tiny bell above the door jingles twice, the door claps shut, and Rocky bustles out of sight from the front window. They hear the next door over open, and Rocky's feet on the stairs. Amber eyes wide at being abandoned so abruptly, and not entirely understanding the reason for it, Freckle stares out the window for as long as he thinks he can get away with before turning back to Ivy and her inquiring gaze.

He taps his fingers against the thick glass in his hands, chewing on his lip, and looks around at the pictures lining the cafe walls. Ivy inclines her head slightly, her tail giving an innocent flick behind her back.

"Freckle?" she croons, reaching forward with one hand to snatch the glass away from him and tucking it under her chin, grinning now that she has his attention fully and he has nothing to hide behind. She presses a different question at him this time, arching an eyebrow, "Life-threatening lacerations?"

He buckles a lot easier this time because he's tired, and because Ivy knows they weren't _fishing_ and he hardly stands a chance against her when she wrings the story out of him. He tries to slide around the bit where he was shot, remembering how she throttled Rocky over Viktor's holes, but this proves impossible when Ivy observantly asks what the medicine is for.

He tells her, and she frowns, her ears laying back.

"Where?" she asks, incredulous.

Freckle grips his side and leans away from the counter in anticipation of the next, immediate demand that comes flying out of her mouth,

"Let me see."

It's so forceful that he almost consents. Almost.

"Wh-what? No. No, I -"

But Ivy, a determined and angry set to her jaw, has already reached across the remaining distance to grab the front of his shirt. She pulls him up with surprising strength, to his feet and against the counter, and Freckle, bewildered, pushes off of it, one hand on the counter and the other trying to pry her hands out of his shirt.

Ivy doesn't seem to hear him when he protests again, "No, really, I -"

"Did he even _take_ you to a doctor?" she demands among a throng of other angry accusations, wrestling his arm aside and grabbing his belt loop so he can't trip backwards over the bar stool like he wants to in an attempt to avoid her.

"N-no, but I haven't - I just - Stop that! I -"

Despite his efforts, she yanks his shirt free of his jeans.

The bell over the door jingles again, and the two look over, expecting to see Mitzi or to hear some other inappropriate nonsense about "struggle buggies". Instead, three elderly women peer back at them, all wide, disapproving eyes, pursed lips, and clutched pocketbooks. Ivy, laying across the counter with her feet in the air and her skirt hitched around her knees, continues holding Freckle against the counter by the waistband of his jeans, and his shirt up out of the way, exposing fresh bandages.

Freckle is mortified.

Ivy simply stares at them for the few seconds the women hover there, and then, before she can break the awkward tension with a nonchalant, "Can I help you?", the biddies turn and flee the establishment with a final, soft jingling from the door bell. She places the blame for this loss of business easily enough.

"I'll kill him," Ivy says with a deep frown, eyes narrowed.

She shakes Freckle by the shirt when she says it, and he knows exactly who she means. Freckle can't decide if it's him or Rocky that has the rotten luck.

-x-


	8. similitude

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Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_similitude_

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It isn't the first letter that he's gotten.

But it _is_ one of the few photographs that has fallen out of the hastily folded pages that his youngest sister has become known for, even though he makes a point (when he deigns to write back, at least) of insisting that she take the five seconds required to fold the paper over into three equal parts, and to not simply cram it into the envelope once she's finished.

The cramming tears the envelope and crumples the paper unnecessarily, and after he's meticulously pressed out the more prominent of wrinkles between his palm and the bar top, Mordecai reads the letter. The very first sentence refers him back to the photograph that he didn't even glance at,

_Well, I hope he atleast doesn't __act__ like you._

Mystified, Mordecai lifts the two pages and looks around the bar for the photograph that had slipped out. When it doesn't immediately fall into his line of vision, he looks to the neighboring empty stools, and then the floor. What he finds, instead, are two small, heeled feet and the swaying fringe of a light blue dress as Ivy Pepper straightens, the photograph in her hands.

She mouths the names and date scrawled on the back, an eyebrow quirked, then turns it over.

She smiles, laughs.

"Who's _this?"_ Ivy asks brightly, turning it with a flick between her fingers and holding it out for Mordecai to see.

It's a young woman with short, dark curls, smiling and holding a small boy, who frowns disdainfully at whomever is behind the camera, his ears laid back against his head. Mordecai unwittingly mirrors the expression, though his is perhaps more of mild surprise than of any irritation from having a camera shoved unsuspectingly at his face. He's never seen the boy before; not in person, though he must admit the resemblance is somewhat uncanny. The woman is taller, more grown-up, but it is still unmistakably Rose and Mordecai can only assume the boy she's holding is the enigmatic son they've all been mentioning in their letters.

He doesn't move to take the photograph back - snatching it away, asking politely for it to be returned, will imply that it is important or that there is some sort of emotional anchorage there, and it is only a harbored instinct from childhood that makes the thought creep into the forefront of Mordecai's mind. The reason quickly edges back in. He isn't going to be taunted by something so trivial as that photograph and he can't muster up the feeling to care either way.

A monotonous reprimand of, "Miss Pepper," is on his tongue when a larger hand intervenes, firmly pinches the photograph between two worn, thick fingers and pulls it out of Ivy's smaller, easier grasp.

"Is not your business, _dievka_," Viktor says, and the photograph swiftly finds it's way back to Mordecai's hands, where he stares at it, eyebrows drawn together slightly.

He can't recall what possessed him to open the letter here in the first place.

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(A/n) Hey, look, more Mordecai! (I don't know what this is OTL)

-Motcn


	9. beneficial

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Lackadaisy Vignettes  
_beneficial_

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"Mother's never going to let you," Esther tells him pointedly, one night when he has suddenly forsaken his senses and confided in her. And despite her previous assertion, she seems highly amused by the idea and arches an eyebrow, smiling. "What do you think your going to do, anyway? You're good with numbers... You wanna to be a miniature-sized bookie?"

Mordecai frowns at the term and doesn't answer.

After a few moments, Esther sighs and mimics the sour expression, crossing her arms and shifting at the foot of the worn-out mattress. There is a small kerosene lamp lit dimly in the floor beside them, and that is the only light on in the entire tenement. Rose coughs and mumbles in her sleep, and pulls at her ear, pressing herself more firmly against Mordecai's hip. He doesn't bother pushing her aside this time.

"Well," Esther continues, "Anyway, you can't quit school."

_This_ is the most ridiculous thing she's said all night.

"I wasn't going to quit."

Now she really looks like she doesn't believe him. Esther rolls her eyes, raising her hands in a brief gesture, "Oy," then leans across the short bed and smacks him in the forehead.

"You _can't _do both!" she says, exasperated, as Mordecai recoils, more irritated by the glancing blow than he is hurt, "Not school _and_ work. I know school's just six hours, but _work_ shifts are long. Sometimes Mom works _twelve hours_, and she still -"

"I was going to get a night job," Mordecai clarifies, green eyes narrowed, "I'll have plenty of time to rest and study in the afternoons. We need the extra income, and I don't know why you're trying to dissuade me from it in the first place, I've already made my decision. I wasn't asking for your opinion on the matter, I was simply informing you of it."

"...Rose is never going to go to sleep with you not home," Esther protests childishly, unable to think of a proper argument in the face of his steadfast resolve and indicating their sister, who is still wedged firmly against Mordecai's side, as if that will persuade him to reconsider.

She doesn't seem to realize - not immediately, at least - that Rose is one of the very reasons that he begins looking for a job. Because they can't keep not affording a doctor, not with the cold returning once again and Rose already sniffling. And they have already learned the hard way that funerals are more expensive... Finding work is the only logical remedy, and Mordecai wonders why he hasn't thought of it before. Several other boys in his class have jobs; most of them have also dropped out in order to maintain them. A night job, then, is the only solution, and since he's sure Esther can be trusted to look after Rose at night when their mother is likewise working, this is what he decides to do.

When he mentions this to his mother - the next evening, in that brief hour between the time they get home from school and the time she goes back to the linen factory - she almost cries again.

She's been crying a lot lately, though Mordecai cannot fathom what good it does.

_"Saykhel,_ Mordecai," she pushes a hand back over the top of his head as she says it, and smiles a little because saying this to him is like telling a fish that it needs water, "School is more important."

She strokes the top of his head again, preoccupied, and even though Mordecai thinks he's too old for this gesture, now, he doesn't stop her from doing it. After a few moments, Tzipporah drops her hand and pats his chest, and tells him to just look after his sisters.

_That's_ his job, for now.

But helping to put food in their mouths and clothes on their backs seems a much more beneficial approach than simply sitting at home with them.

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(A/n) lol A miniature-sized bookie. Also, thank you guys for the wonderful reviews! C: I'm glad someone is enjoying these~

-Motcn


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